


Bright Against the Dark

by orphan_account



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Emetophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Read the warnings, guess the seeker, prisoners of war, slight polyamory, the wreckers - Freeform, violations of the geneva conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22128646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Wheeljack and a few of his fellow Wreckers are captured by the Decepticons.  Some things bought of love are heavier than others.
Relationships: Wheeljack/Jetfire, Wheeljack/Kup, Wheeljack/Seeker, Wheeljack/Springer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Bright Against the Dark

“Suck it,” his captor grinds out, voice harsher than his usual screeches, hips grinding down, stretching his intake. 

Wheeljack chokes on the thing in his oral cavity, gagging slightly. The Wrecker’s dentae press down. “Bite it off,” his inner monologue whispers. “Chew it up and make sure he can’t reinstall it. Show him what he gets for messing with you.”

A null ray presses square between his optic ridges, the thin, heavy neutronium of its muzzle digging into sensitive faceplates, nearly drawing energon. He glares upward at pitiless crimson optics, and presses his dentae down harder.

“Bite me and they die first.” Wheeljack is staring into those optics. No pity, no hesitation, no bluffing.

Scarred lips tense around the spike stretching them wide, dentae pulling away. The null ray slides down, caresses his stretched, puffed cheeks. “Good mech. Your precious little Wreckers get to live as long as you behave.” Talons trace his large, sensitive audials, and he fights back a shudder with massive effort, fights the urge to bite down, snap his battle mask shut, and kill this worthless piece of slag.

The mech above him continues - does he ever shut up? “If you genuinely please me, I may give that insane rotary you cling to medical treatment. He was still bleeding coolant and energon last I checked. All over the floor - I was tempted to tell the flying Vehicons to lick it up, rations being what they are nowadays. I’m sure you know. But I was afraid his...issues were of the catching variety.” The talons slide from his audial to the back of his head, cupping him in a mockery of a lover’s tender touch before digging into his cervical struts and shoving him forward.

“Glck!” Wheeljack manages, closing his optics against the sting of cleanser in the corners of them as his intake is intruded to the limit. The mech fragging his oral cavity groans and starts thrusting, servo holding Wheeljack’s head in place as the filthy Decepticon spike shoves into his intake hard enough to make him cough, to make him choke, and worst of all to make him gag. This bastard doesn’t get the satisfaction of watching him purge his tanks, weak and sobbing at his pedes. He won’t, he won’t, he will fragging NOT…

The mech’s silvery hips slam upward hard enough to split his already-scarred lips, and he claws against the talons holding his head still. He needs to pull back, he needs to vent, he needs to…

He needs to purge. He barely manages to rip his mouth away from the heavy, swollen spike long enough to purge on elegant, stiletto-heeled pedes. He can’t stop heaving. Against his will he grips a thin but reinforced thigh for support, retching and praying Whirl and Bulk and Roddi can’t hear it. Instead of the expected snarl of disgust and vicious beating he’d expected, the trembling engineer gets a fond stroke with sharp talons. “Good pet. You’ll live to tell the world I filled your throat better than Megatron ever could.”

Wheeljack coughs and gags again, dry-heaving. The Seeker’s spike had certainly been long, but thinking about Megatron’s massive build, he’s always assumed the warlord’s proportional spike was reserved for bigger bots than he was, preferably with mods. He didn’t think anyone smaller than Ultra Magnus was even on Megatron’s radar.

Primus, he hopes Optimus Prime isn’t on that list. He may only have the vaguest impression of the Prime, seen from a distance and his orders heard at the end of a long comm-shuffle, but that kind of earnestness didn’t deserve a thick, impatient spike shoved into it.

He glares up at his captor - glares past the stiff spike still bobbing next to him, heavy and throbbing. The fragger had the nerve to grin before clamping razored talons around his helm and shoving his face towards his fragging spike again.

Wheeljack growls and pulls back hard, dentae clenched into an impenetrable barrier. The talons tighten. “Make me overload with just your glossa, and the rotary gets treatment,” the Seeker shrilled as his slender spike slammed into scarred, split lips.

“I make you come and you patch him up and let him go.” Wheekjack feels brave enough to try negotiation with a swollen, dripping spike pressing his lower lip down and mashing against his clenched dentae.

The Seeker slaps his face with his spike again, Wheeljack’s pale dermal plating flexing against the sudden impact. “Fine,” he growls, impatient. “I’ll let the insane ‘copter go, and I might even have the Vehicons plug most of his leaks first. But you let me frag your face, Autobot.”

Wheeljack looks up into those burning red optics again, and nods his assent.

Having sold himself for Whirl’s safety, he begins the performance of his life. He immediately sucks the tip of the Seeker’s spike into his mouth, lips spread and slicking the fat, silvery head of it. He nibbles and licks, pre-transfluid flooding his oral cavity. Good. He’s doing a good job. He can almost feel Kup’s servo on his shoulder, stroking him, encouraging him to get Springer off with his glossa and servos so he’d last longer and feel better once he was inside of his valve. He closes vividly electric-blue eyes, imagining the taste of his comrades. The taste of the pre-transfluid reminds him of Jetfire - heavy with aluminum and caesium salts, with a faint, sweet taste of lead. Jetfire had always tasted like candy when he came, all lead and mercury and the faint traces of caesium salts to give him tang.

He wonders if a simple, brutal Seeker will taste the same as his gentle friend.

He sucks him down.

He’s ready now, no gagging, no struggling. He knows what’s needed. He knows the number of laser and bullet holes Whirl had been dragged in here with, knows that even Roddi and Bulk’s willing servos won’t be enough to plug the holes.

He knows how much energon his slender rotary friend holds.

He slides his slick mouth farther up the Seeker’s spike, caressing the head with the base of his glossa. His cheek dermae hollow around the thickness in his mouth. His faceplates click softly, even as his scarred lips press firmly into the underside of the hard spike in his mouth, almost to the pelvic plating of the groaning, flexing mech above him. His cuffed servos slip up to help the trembling Seeker along, and a taloned claw swats them away. “Glossa ONLY!” he snarls, sharp fangs shining silver. Wheeljack wants to scream in frustration, but manages to choke it down to faux-aroused moan.

The Decepticon atop him grins and starts violently fragging his mouth. Every slam of the Seeker’s spike into his mouth forces cleanser to trickle out of the corner of his optics as he squints at him, committing every inch of him to memory. The bastard. The Pitspawn. The….the…

He suddenly becomes distantly aware of what he’s been sucking nearly on instinct, empty tanks no longer having a reason to gag. There’s something wrong with it. This bot won’t come sweet candy into him like Jetfire would have. He clutches frantically at what he thinks is Jetfire’s thigh, even though part of him knows that Jetfire is on Cybertron, safely researching space bridge granularity.

His eyes widen, staring into read the Seeker’s eyes as he feels overload codes push down his throat even as his spark goes dull and neutral from them. Feels his rapist fading into a boring background character in his mind, too bland to recall correctly. Feels Bulkhead’s strong arms pull around him, yanking closer. Hears Whirl’s cooling fans creaking and chunking against the projectiles within him, stubborn despite the massive holes in his body. Hears Roddi snarling. Hears the first stun-blasts and the cold settling over his body as he slumps.

The last thing he sees before his overtaxed optics fade out is a slender red medic bending over Whirl, tending to the multiplicitous holes in him.

Wheeljack’s optics slide into sleep mode to the sound of the medic cursing softly.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in about two hours. I've been on a Jackie kick lately. Sorry, Wheeljack!


End file.
